


The Next Six Days

by elrhiarhodan



Series: Recovery and Return [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death (Non-canonical)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 06:47:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The “Comfort” sequel to the “Hurt” in <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/487907">Six Hours to Freedom</a>.  The story of what happens after Peter and Moz rescue Neal.  Peter calls in an old favor to save Neal’s life, to keep them safe, and to get them home.  Moz is a badass to end all badasses, except that Reese Hughes is also seriously badass.  </p><p>Completely A/U from the start of S4.02 - Most Wanted (Henry Dobbs is no one special).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

Mozzie pushed Henry Dobbs up the stairs, his rage giving him strength. Each time Dobbs stumbled, Moz kicked him. He didn’t care where the blows landed, and from the squeal of pain, he was certain that he got him in the balls at least once.

Seeing Neal battered and bloody and struggling for each breath stripped the veneer of civility off him. Violence wasn’t usually ever a tool he liked using, but there were always exceptions. By the time they made it back to the house, Moz had left several more marks on their erstwhile protector.

“Your security room, and don’t think of trying anything.” He shoved the muzzle of his gun into the small of Dobbs’ back. “Ever hear of the Dentist of Detroit?”

“Yeah.” Dobbs’ reply was barely audible.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Yeah, yeah – of course I’ve heard of the Dentist.”

“Well, guess what, you’ve just made your first appointment. You need an extraction, and I’m all out of Novocain.”

Dobbs was frozen and Moz actually enjoyed the fear on his face. “You double crossed us, you piece of shit, and now you’re going to pay for it.” Moz raised his hand, as if to pistol whip him. “Your security room and the tapes you made of Collins – NOW.”

Dobbs flinched and held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Just don’t hurt me.”

_Typical coward._ Moz poked the gun in the man’s back and followed him. They stopped at a locked door. Moz screwed the muzzle into Dobbs’ side as he reached into his pocket for the keys. The room was empty, but there was a bank of monitors, all but one focused on the exterior of the house. That monitor showed the cell where Collins had – 

Moz couldn’t finish the thought. He saw what the bastard did to Neal, and he was going to pay for it, hopefully with his life.

There was a state of the art video recording deck and a pile of DVDs. “You like to watch, Henry?” Dobbs didn’t answer and Moz backhanded him across the face, his rings tearing strips of skin off. “I asked, do you like to watch?”

“Yes.” Dobbs moaned through the blood pouring out of his mouth.

The discs were labeled with location, dates and times. There were four marked “Basement Cell” and today’s date. Moz ran each of them. When he got to the third disc, Neal, battered almost beyond recognition, was hanging from his arms, feet twisted as if he couldn’t stand. Next to him was a car battery, a pair of jumper cables, and a bucket of water with metal rods in it.

There were times in Moz’s life when rage colored his world with blood. It happened when he discovered Hale’s body, again when he received Neal’s message that Keller had taken Elizabeth. He controlled himself then. 

This time was not the same. This time, he just let go.

By time Moz was finished, Henry Dobbs was a bleeding mess on the marble floor. He was still alive and he’d probably stay that way if someone got to him in time. Pity that he locked the door behind him.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter counted the minutes until Mozzie returned. He cradled Neal gently in his arms, afraid that even the slightest movement would cause him pain.

Collins was on the concrete floor outside of the cell, but Peter wasn’t worried about him. He had cuffed the man (he refused to think of the sadistic bastard as a fellow agent) after knocking him out. Moz had procured as second set of cuffs and put them on Collins’ feet, trussing him like a Thanksgiving turkey, his dick still hanging out.

Neal moaned and shifted in his arms. Peter tried to quiet him. “Shh, I’ve got you. You’re safe now.” Neal seemed to take comfort in Peter’s voice, so he kept talking. Nonsense stuff, about how everyone missed him and wanted him home where he belonged.

“June’s got your room draped in dust covers. Once we fix everything, you’ll be able to step right back into your life. It will be like you just went on vacation.”

Neal was, to Peter’s surprise, conscious. “Yeah, it was a nice vacation, until this morning.” He wheezed.

“I’m so sorry – if I hadn’t tried to find you, this never would have happened. If I hadn’t called in Kramer … ”

Peter tried not to wince as Neal’s fingers dug into him. “That doesn’t matter. You got here in time. That’s what counts, you’ll always find me.”

“In time? Collins was a few seconds from putting a bullet in you. He tortured you.”

“Shh, it’s okay. I’ll survive.” Neal coughed and struggled to breath; Peter wasn’t so sure about Neal’s optimism.

“Stop trying to comfort me – it’s my job to take care of you.” He held Neal on his lap, uncomfortably reminded of the _Pietà_ and wondered where the hell Mozzie was.

“Are you okay, would it be easier to sit?”

“No, this is fine, if you don’t mind.” Neal rested his head against Peter’s shoulder, smearing the shirt with blood, his hands gripping his arm, holding on to him with a terrible strength. “Hey, sorry.”

“It’ll wash out, don’t worry.” Even if it didn’t, Peter would never wear this shirt again. 

There was a clatter and an ooof, the sound of someone being kicked. Mozzie was back. It seemed that he couldn’t help himself as he walked by Collins. Peter didn’t blame him.

“I’ve got them, now what?”

“You are sure they’re the right discs?”

“I’ve checked them, Suit. Believe me, they are the right discs.” 

Peter sensed Mozzie’s rage and feared the worst. “What about Dobbs?”

“He won’t be bothering us for a while.”

And the all-important question: “How are we going to get out of here and get Neal to a hospital?”

Moz grimaced. “That’s going to be a problem – Dobbs undoubtedly has fingers in that pie, too. Neal won’t be safe in a local facility for long.”

Peter figured as much. “Let’s worry about that later, Neal needs medical treatment now.”

“Hey, Moz.” Neal tried to sit up. 

Moz all but fell to his knees. “How are you doing?”

“I’ve had better days, my friend.”

“Listen, if I call Maya, do you think she’ll help?”

“NO!” Neal struggled and Peter held him tight, he was going to fall. 

“Why? Don’t you trust her?”

“No – don’t want her involved; don’t want her in the middle of this. If it gets back to Dobbs that she helped us…”

Peter interrupted. “We need to get you out of here, now. As inconspicuously as possible.” It took a little effort, but he stood up and put Neal into the chair. Neal whimpered, and Peter closed his eyes against the heartbreak. Neal’s shirt had been tossed in the corner, as were his shoes. His pants – cut down the back and stained with blood and semen– were unsalvageable, but were evidence. He asked Moz to take them.

“Here.” Moz thrust something at him, a pair of swim trunks. Peter didn’t ask how he got them; he didn’t think he wanted to know. Between the two of them, they got Neal dressed. And Peter noticed something, something that just might save Neal. Time for that later – they needed to get out of here before Dobbs set his bodyguards on them.

“Can you walk?” The soles of Neal’s feet were bloody, covered in burn marks and blisters. He had stifled a scream when they slipped his shoes on.

“I’ll have to.”

Peter thought, of all the moments when he had seen Neal rise above circumstance, this was the one he’d remember forever. The climb up the stairs was slow. Neal’s broken ribs and nose made it difficult to for him to breathe. Moz and Peter supported Neal as much as they could, until Peter swept him up in his arms, carrying him up the last dozen steps. There was almost no place on his torso that wasn’t bruised or beaten or whipped.

It had been a long time since Peter believed in a benevolent god, but just maybe someone was watching out for them; they made it to the garage in the back of the mansion without being seen. There were a half-dozen vehicles and Peter carefully laid Neal on the back seat of a road-worn SUV. Moz pulled out the GPS and hot wired it. As soon as they cleared the front gate, Neal reached the end of his resources and passed out.

“Where to?” Peter asked. 

“My villa.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

During the seemingly endless ride to Mozzie’s villa, Peter debated with him about contacting Maya. Moz was worried that someone – Dobbs or Collins – would have her tailed. In the end, Peter reluctantly agreed with him.

But that didn’t solve the problem of Neal’s urgent need for medical attention. He held Neal carefully, trying to give him whatever comfort he could. But Neal was shivering, probably going into shock from the trauma. As soon as they arrived, Moz him helped carry Neal into a bedroom. They piled on whatever blankets they could find to keep him warm.

Moz paced the length of the room. “I’ve got to get rid of that truck and get some medical supplies. You need to figure out how to get Neal out of here.” 

Peter nodded. “I think I have an idea. Just watch your back.”

Moz nodded. “You’ll know if there’s trouble, Suit.” He handed Peter a set of keys. “If you have to get out of here quickly, take care of Neal, don’t worry about me.”

Peter nodded back; getting Neal to safety was the most important thing of all. 

Moz left and Peter pulled out his cell phone. He needed to contact an old friend, to call in an old favor. He hoped that the telephone number was still in service. It did ring through, someone picked up, and Peter completed the security protocols he memorized a decade ago. The clicks on the line told him nothing; he monitored the length of the call on his watch and wondered if the delay was to give them time to triangulate his location.

_“Peter Burke, to what do I owe this pleasure?”_

Peter sighed in relief. “Ze’ev, you old wolf, how are you?”

_“I’ve been better, but I’ve been worse too. And you?”_

“Could say the same.”

_“Now, I don’t think you’re calling me here for the simple joy of hearing my voice. As you Americans say, ‘What gives’?”_

Peter was blunt, he had no choice. “I have to call in that favor. And by the time we’re done, I’ll probably end up owing you in return.”

_“Hmm – don’t know if that’s possible, Peter. Tell me what you need.”_

“I need medical care and legal sanctuary for a friend.” He didn’t say anything else, hoping that Ze’ev could read between the lines.

_“Does it have anything to do with why you’re in Cape Verde?”_ Ze’ev asked, confirming Peter’s suspicions that his call was traced. _“And why can’t your vaunted Federal Bureau of Investigations give you assistance?”_

“Because my trip is not sanctioned and the damage was done by a fellow agent.” 

Ze’ev was, thankfully, perceptive. _“Ah. I see._

“My friend was – ” Peter took a deep breath - it was hard to say. “Tortured. He’s badly injured and is going to need care beyond what can be provided here. And he won’t be able to withstand public air transportation. Can you help?”

The silence at the other end was nerve-wracking. Finally Ze’ev replied. _“Let’s make this clear. Are you invoking the Law of Return on your friend’s behalf?”_

Peter swallowed. This was going against everything he believed was right and good and proper. “Yes.”

_“And you have proof that your friend has that right?”_

“He’s circumcised.”

Ze’ev snorted in wry amusement. _“Well, that’s step one. What about a birth certificate, a letter from a rabbi?”_

“Under the circumstances that might be difficult.” And yet, Peter thought that Mozzie could probably produce the appropriate documentation without too much effort. “My friend isn’t going to permanently emigrate. He just needs medical care and sanctuary until his legal situation is resolved.”

_“Ah – I take it that you mean he needs sanctuary from the U.S. government? The Law of Return is not absolute, my friend. We don’t shelter murderers. We turned away Meyer Lansky, despite his millions.”_

“My friend hasn’t murdered anyone. He’s in a difficult situation that’s mostly my fault. We are working on resolving it, but we need some time.” It was a pity that the treasure was back in Russia. A piece or two might have gone a long way in buying what was needed.

_”Peter – I owe you more than my life is worth – and I would do anything to accommodate you and your friend, but trust me, invoking the Law of Return is not in your friend’s best interests. The political climate here is difficult, to put it delicately. Your friend is the target of a fugitive warrant, right? I can’t guarantee that my government wouldn’t happily turn him over to your people if it would buy them some goodwill.”_

Peter knew this plan was a long shot, but he hadn’t expected it to crash quite so readily. “Can you help at all?” He knew he was begging.

_“You said you needed medical help and a safe place, right? How safe are you now?”_

Mozzie’s villa – unlike Neal’s – was on a hilltop, deep in the forest. It had a fortress quality to it, akin to some of the little guy’s safe houses back in New York. It also had the advantage of secrecy. Collins didn’t know about Moz, and he doubted that Dobbs would be willing to identify Moz – or more accurately – the Dentist of Detroit. “We’re secure, but I don’t know how long we’ll remain that way.”

_“What if I could send you what you need? Doctors, medical supplies, some security, transportation back to America when you need it? Everything under the radar. Would that buy you the time you needed?”_

“You could do that? You _would_ do that?” 

_“My son is alive and well and has given me three beautiful grandchildren because Peter Burke was a mensch. This is the very least I can do. Tell me what you’ll need.”_

Peter gave his friend a rundown of Neal’s injuries, his voice breaking as he described the results of Collins’ torture.

_“How is his breathing?”_

“Labored.”

_“Can you tell me, is his belly hard?”_

“When did you become a doctor?” Peter commented and went to check. Neal moaned as Peter palped the area. It felt hard, tense, and there was bruising from his hips to his collarbone.

_“I was a field medic once, actually thought about becoming a doctor.”_

“Instead, you became a spook and your kid became the doctor. And yes, his belly’s hard and tender. Swollen too.”

_“Not good – he may be bleeding internally. I’m sending a surgical team. What time is it there?”_

“About six PM.”

_“You’ve got a long night ahead of you. I’ll have medical and security teams in the air within the hour. I have your coordinates – they’ll be on the ground and at your location by three AM.”_

Peter wondered if Moz would throw a fit when Israeli mercenaries showed up at the gate. Probably not, if they were accompanied by surgeons with instructions to keep Neal alive. “Ze’ev, thank you.” 

_“Next time, Peter – ask me for something difficult.”_

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Moz thought long and hard about where to dump the truck. He could ditch it in the jungle, let the trees take it, but that presented an interesting problem – he’d be stuck too. And getting Neal medical supplies was priority. He could leave it some place in town, someplace conspicuous, as if he were thumbing his nose at Dobbs and Collins. It would be convenient for picking up the pharmaceuticals, but he would still need to get back to his mountain retreat.

The third alternative was the most dangerous one. Neal had a car, flashy and good-looking but rarely used. Moz figured that he could leave the truck in town, get the supplies, and walk to Neal’s villa – about ten minutes away. The risk was that Dobbs or Collins could be sitting on the house, just waiting for Neal and Peter to show up. But Moz wasn’t a man who shied away from risk. He was, after all, Neal’s friend.

Mind made up, he parked on the outskirts of the market area. The daytime vendors had long closed up, but his friend Hector was hanging around. The boy’s eyes widened when he spotted Moz.

“You okay? I heard that Senhor Maine was in bad trouble.”

Moz didn’t bother to reassure Hector. He may have been only eight, but he wasn’t sheltered from the harshness of life. “He needs some help.” Moz handed the boy money. “Can you go to the _farmácia_ and get me bandages?”

Hector took the money and ran off. Moz went into the town’s other drug store – which wasn’t quite a store, per se. Shortly after arriving on the island, Moz had ingratiated himself with a local medical practitioner. Like him, Samuels was an ex pat, probably on the run from the law. The man had some unpleasant habits and wasn’t particular about cleanliness. Moz wouldn’t bring him to his villa to treat Neal, but he’d get the rest of what he needed from him.

It took a lot of bargaining and a little more arm-twisting, but Moz walked out with a bottle of Vicodin, a bottle of Erythromycin, some topical antibiotics and lidocaine to help with the pain. He met up with Hector on their accustomed street corner. The boy handed him the bandages and left, knowing that he shouldn’t be seen with him right now.

The streets that evening were typically busy – tourists and locals mingling – the sounds of the good life pouring out of the local bars and restaurants. Moz ignored them all, keeping a careful lookout for Dobbs’ men, or worse – Mad Dog Collins. There was no sign of any local trouble and he made his way back to Neal’s villa. The grounds were disturbed – broken shrubbery, windows broken, lights left on – Collins had been here. But was he gone?

Moz picked his way up the drive – the place looked deserted – but Collins was FBI and Moz had learned not to underestimate the Suits – especially the kind that like to rape and torture people. He watched the house, wishing for at least one piece of Russian military surplus – maybe an infrared scope or a hand-held missile launcher. After a sweat-soaked hour watching for any movement, Moz scurried over to the garage. He listened carefully before picking the lock. Neal’s little black BMW convertible was there waiting for him, keys in the ignition. Every instinct screamed at him to race out of there, to burn rubber, but he took it slowly. A fast car on this road would bring unnecessary attention.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal hovered between comatose and consciousness. Pain from the whipping made it uncomfortable to lie on his back, but the broken ribs and swollen nose meant he couldn’t rest on his stomach or side.

Peter did his best to make Neal comfortable. Cold compresses applied on his face to reduce the swelling, keeping the sheet away from his blistered feet. Too little to really make a difference. He watched the time slowly slip by, listening to Neal’s labored breathing. As bad as they were, the injuries to his back and feet seemed relatively minor compared to the potential internal bleeding and the risk of shock.

He piled blankets across Neal’s torso to prevent that, but if something was ruptured inside, there was little he could do. Peter had never felt this helpless – not even when Keller had taken Elizabeth. Then, he could do something – he could bring his skills, the power of the FBI, the force of law to bear. This was a simple waiting game.

Neal stirred and moaned, and all Peter could do was carefully stroke his forehead – one of the few unbruised places on his face. The touch soothed Neal, and he relaxed until Peter removed his hand, then he shifted restlessly and opened his eyes.

“Peter?”

“Hey there.” Peter smiled but it felt like he was tearing part of his face off. 

“I have to tell you something…”

“Shh – just take it easy.”

Neal struggled and pulled an arm out from under the covers. “Peter, no – you have to listen to me.” He sounded so terribly desperate. 

Peter was afraid that his friend was going to confess to some heinous crime, something that Peter would have to arrest him for later. “Whatever it is, it’s not important.”

“It is, please. You have to listen to me.”

“Okay, okay.” He took Neal’s hand, rubbing a gentle finger across the bruised and raw skin on his wrists. Something else to take out of Collins’ hide.

“Remember the night after we took down Van Horn, when you called me?”

Peter knew exactly the night Neal that was talking about. “Yeah – we talked. Sara had just broken up with you. You were upset but were trying to hide it. We were so broken – but I couldn’t let you suffer alone.” 

Neal swallowed and a flash of pain crossed his face. He licked his lips and Peter started to get up, to get him some ice chips, but Neal clung to his hand. “No – don’t go. Let me finish, before I can’t.”

“Neal – it’s not important.” Peter repeated. 

“No – it is. You have to know. I can’t die with this on my soul.”

“You’re not going to die, Neal. You hear me? You understand, I’m not going to let you die.” The words, like the terror in his soul, were icy, angry.

“You may not be able to stop the inevitable.”

Peter didn’t, couldn’t answer.

Neal licked his lips again and struggled to take a deep breath. “That night – when you called – I wasn’t in my apartment. I was … I was at your house. In your house. I broke into your house – You were out in the surveillance van, Moz arranged to take Elizabeth out – and I broke in.”

Peter closed his eyes and sighed. “You were after the u-boat manifest.”

“I’m sorry. I was sorry when I did it. I lied to you, I lied to Mozzie. I lied to everyone. I deserve this.”

“NO!” Peter’s denial was explosive. “Never – you never deserved this.”

“I – ”

Peter took a deep breath, and another. “Maybe under different circumstances I’d be terribly angry with you. But we both messed up. And you didn’t run – at least not because of the treasure. There’s nothing to forgive.” He leaned over and carefully wiped away Neal’s tears.

“Thank you, Peter. I didn’t want to die with that on my conscience. Of all the bad things I’ve done, I think that was the worst. I betrayed your trust.”

“And I betrayed yours when I accused you. I compounded it when I called in Kramer. So maybe we’re even?”

Neal closed his eyes and his lips twitched in a smile. “Okay. I’m tired now. Gonna take a nap, ‘kay?”

“Rest. I’ll watch over you.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Moz was thankful that the villa was quiet when he got back. Peter was sitting with Neal, holding his hand, and something in him ached.

When Neal told him about his deal with the Suits two years – a lifetime – ago, he never expected Neal to make it past the first month. The only thing that stood between his friend and skipping out was the cost of a set of wire cutters. But Neal didn’t run, not when he had the chance, not for the best of reasons – not even when he thought the Suit had betrayed him. Moz didn’t count the time he got close enough to get on an airplane – because Neal had, after all, turned back.

He knew, he always knew that Neal wasn’t going to leave with him. Despite the plans, the promise of unlimited wealth, the life of luxury, Neal was too firmly fixed on recreating the life he wanted as a child. If he couldn’t be a cop, he’d become the next best thing.

When Neal called him, told him he _had_ to run, his heart sang for joy – Neal was finally, firmly in his camp again. No more Suits, no more pretenses, just the dream. It took less than a week to realize that Neal really didn’t share the dream. He’d always long for New York, for the life he left behind. He’d long for the Suits, for The Suit. 

For Peter.

Moz didn’t quite know what to make of their relationship anymore. Originally, he was certain it was one of mutual use. Peter used Neal’s wits, his connections, his smarts to put others of his kind behind bars, and Neal used Peter keep himself out of prison, to help him find Kate. But by the time he actually met Peter, he wasn’t so sure. People who were just using each other didn’t share that level of respect.

It was clear that they were friends, that Neal liked the Suit; he liked the Suit’s life, his intelligence, his decency. Moz could see why – had Neal actually been who he thought he was, he could have been another version of the Suit.

All well and good, but that wasn’t quite it. There was something more to their relationship, and watching their reunion on top of that tower, watching them now, Moz knew what it was. They were David and Jonathan; they loved each other – as friends, as brothers. Maybe someday, or maybe in another universe, they’d be lovers, too. But he didn’t see that here – or at least not yet.

He should have been jealous – or at least more jealous. He had parts of Neal that the Suit could never claim, but looking at them now, listening to Peter absolve Neal, taking on the blame for this terrible debacle, it was clear that Peter was always going to hold the best parts of Neal close to his heart.

As well he should.

He waited as Peter pressed a soft kiss on Neal’s brow, he waited long enough so that Peter wouldn’t think he had been eavesdropping. “Suit? How’s he doing?”

Peter turned around as he approached, and Moz was shocked at how much the other man had aged – in just a day. 

“He’s in pain, and I think he’s bleeding inside.”

He put the medical supplies on the bedside table and they started working on Neal. “So, what are we going to do? Do we risk a hospital?”

“No – I called in a favor, a huge one.” 

Moz was both impressed and incredulous as Peter explained his plan. 

“Let me get this straight. In a few hours, a medical team specializing in battlefield trauma and a troop of IDF-trained mercenaries are going to land, secure transport and drive up here. They’ll operate on Neal, if necessary, and keep Collins out, keep Dobbs out, and once it’s safe to bring Neal home, they’ll provide transport back to the States?”

Peter nodded, a grim smile on his lips. “That about sums it up.”

“You have better contacts than I do. But one question. How do we make sure it’s safe for Neal to go home?”

“That’s going to be your job, Moz. You’ll have to take those discs back to New York and show them to Hughes. You’re going to have to leverage them to get Neal’s deal back, or something better. It was what Neal was planning – except he never expected Collins to take it so far. Can you do that?”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal knew that Peter and Moz thought he had passed out, but he hadn’t. He was just resting. Of course Peter was going to fix this – although the thought of someone operating on him in Mozzie’s kitchen was a little terrifying.

He stifled a gasp of pain as Peter applied something to the soles of his feet. Whatever it was, it worked. The aching burn evaporated into numbness. They lifted him up and did the same thing to his back. The relief was spectacular.

He wanted to interrupt them, to ask for something so embarrassing, so intimate, but he couldn’t. Maybe when the doctors came. He could still feel Collins’ slime on him, he wanted to be clean. He didn’t want to die with that on him.

But Neal didn’t, couldn’t ask his friends for that. They had already done so much.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	2. Day Two

About one AM, Peter got the call from Ze’ev that the team was on the ground in Praia, and that they had secured transport. They would be at Moz’s villa within the hour. He watched the road, leaving Moz and Neal for a few moments of privacy. Three large black SUVs rolled up to the gate, and not for the first time, Peter wished he had a gun. 

A man in his early thirties jumped out of the lead vehicle, a silhouette against the headlights.

“Is that you, Special Agent Peter Burke, of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

To his great relief, Peter recognized the voice. “Dr. Eli Yahalom, _shalom_.” He opened the gates, and stepped aside. The trucks rumbled through and people spilled out. The security team in the first vehicle didn’t bother to acknowledge anyone; they just set up a perimeter. The group from the second was unloading cases of what Peter hoped was medical equipment.

Eli approached, hand outstretched and Peter took it gratefully. “Thank you.”

“No, no thanks are necessary. Take us to the patient, we’ll talk later.”

The medics trailed them into the house and Eli shouted out orders in Hebrew before turning back to Peter. “The best place to set up an operating theater will be the kitchen, where is it?”

Peter swallowed and nodded before giving them directions. Half the team peeled off, presumably to prep the space and Peter took Eli and the rest into the bedroom.

Moz stood up, ready to defend Neal against any danger. 

Peter told him, “It’s okay – Eli’s an old friend.”

Moz didn’t look convinced, but before Peter could explain, Eli jumped in. “Agent Peter Burke saved my life many years ago – I was young and stupid and I should have gone to prison or worse.” Eli paused and pulled the blankets off of Neal.

He kept talking as he pulled on gloves and conducted the examination. “When I was an intern, I got swept up in a fake pill racket with some pretty terrible people, but Peter…” Eli paused as he felt Neal’s stomach, a worried look replacing the eager friendliness. “Excuse me.” The story stopped short as he put on his stethoscope to listen. 

Peter caught Moz’s eye and they both stepped away from the bed, letting the doctor and his team work on Neal. Eli called out more orders, and a portable x-ray machine was rolled in. They watched and waited, and Peter thought that things were much worse than they seemed, since the instructions, mostly in Hebrew, were flying fast. When a stretcher appeared, the worst was confirmed.

Eli stripped off his gloves and approached them. “Your friend has sustained quite a beating.”

Moz was still a little hostile. “Thank you for stating the obvious.”

Peter shushed him but Eli didn’t blink. “He’s got a slow bleed from his spleen and there are several broken ribs. I think his kidneys will be all right, though. I’m concerned about operating, given the state of his air intake. We’ll intubate, but there’s a risk.”

“And if you don’t operate?”

“I think Neal’s spleen could rupture and then he will bleed to death in short order.”

Peter looked at Moz – they both needed to made this decision. Moz asked the smart questions. “What are the risks if you do operate here? Do you have the right equipment? How long will it be before Neal can travel?”

Eli looked at Peter first before answering. He didn’t have anything to add. 

“Well, there is always the risk of infection, but that can be managed. We have the equipment needed for the operation – which we’ll be able to do laparoscopically – and for post operative care. If there are complications from the lung problems, Neal will be kept intubated and sedated. He can fly on private transport in about three days, barring complications. Any other questions?”

Moz pulled him to one side. “You trust him? He’s going to cut into Neal in the kitchen.”

Peter shared all those fears. “Eli’s a field trauma surgeon – these conditions are probably the best he’s had since his residency. I think we have to trust him and his abilities.”

Without a word, Moz walked back to Eli, who was having Neal prepped. “Peter trusts you. And I – well – I trust him in this. Go save Neal’s life.”

Eli gave them both a quick, tight smile before finishing up with Neal.

A young woman, tall and hard-eyed, strode into the room like she owned it. She ignored Peter and went straight to Eli. They talked – or argued – fiercely for a few moments, and Eli kept pointing towards him and Moz. The woman shook her head, shrugged and came over to them.

“Which one of you is going to New York now?”

“That would be me – but I want to wait until Neal is out of danger.”

“Moz – you can’t – I’m worried that Collins will escalate this back in New York. He and Kramer can do a lot of damage.”

Moz looked torn, but before Peter could continue his argument, the young woman interrupted. “We need to leave now, our flight plans are filed. We have to make a refueling stop in Lisbon, and then we’ll go direct to New York.”

Moz looked from him, to Neal as he was taken to the kitchen-cum-operating theater, to the woman with hard eyes, then back to Peter.

“Neal will be all right, Moz. I promise you.”

“Okay – okay. Give me five minutes.” Moz ran off.

Peter couldn’t help but ask. “What was your argument with Eli about?” 

The woman, her expression schooled to blandness, looked like she wasn’t going to answer, but Peter didn’t want to let it go. Too much was at stake. He stared at her. She met his gaze and it was a contest to see who’d break first.

Neither did, and Peter was rewarded with a tight smile.

“I don’t like the idea of leaving Dr. Yahalom.”

“There is a rather impressive security force that accompanied him.”

“They’re mercenaries.”

 _And you’re not. You’re *official.*_ “Do you have a spare weapon?”

The smile grew a little more shark-like. “He said you’d probably ask for one. Glock-22?”

Peter nodded. 

“You’ll have it before we leave.”

Their departure seemed to be sooner than later. Moz came out of the house, a small satchel in hand. “I’m ready.” To Peter’s eyes, he seemed just that much taller.

Eli joined them. “Neal’s ready for surgery – do you want to see him before we take him in?”

They went over to the gurney; Peter was surprised that Neal was awake, and he felt guilty that he could offer nothing but the most banal of comforts. “You’re in good hands.” 

Neal smiled through the bruising and swelling. “I don’t doubt that.”

Moz leaned over and whispered something, but all Peter caught was the word “bedpans” and Neal’s pained chuff of laughter. The medics wheeled Neal out of the bedroom, and before Eli could follow, Peter pulled him to one side.

“What’s the matter?”

“Neal.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Was raped.”

Eli’s eyes went wide.

“We didn’t wash him – is there any way you can do a swab sample?”

“Of course – don’t worry about it.” Eli shook his head. “Stupid thing to say. Of course you’re going to worry about it. Sometimes words just fail.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Eli went to scrub up presumably, and Peter walked out to the courtyard with Moz and Eli’s unnamed associate. 

She handed him a small aluminum case. “This should suit your needs.” There was another case on the ground, and she picked it up and handed that too him as well. “A secure line in case you need to reach the airplane when it’s in transit.” She checked her watch. “If we stay on schedule, we’ll be in New York in twelve hours.”

Moz didn’t say goodbye. The look on his face was farewell enough.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	3. Day Three

Moz spent the better part of the flight to Lisbon using the private jet’s computers and printers. He duplicated the DVDs – because there was no way he’d hand the originals over to anyone. Working from the duplicates (the originals hidden in his satchel), he printed out several dozen screen shots of Collins torturing Neal. That was the worst, but he made himself do it, and to find some distance was essential. He’d fall apart if he couldn’t. 

His traveling companion, Ms Tall, Dark and Mysterious, poured him a glass of whiskey, but he waved it off. 

“Can I help?”

Moz didn’t look away from the monitor. “I don’t think so.” He remembered his manners. “But thank you.” He was careful not to ask her name.

“What are you going to do when you get to New York?”

“Not quite sure, yet. I don’t know if our enemies have preceded me.” He tried to focus on the technical aspects of the image on the screen, not the image itself. 

She gently tried to push him out of the seat. “I’ll do this – go rest.”

“No – no. This isn’t something a lady should do.”

The “lady” laughed; a rich and bitter note. “I’m sure I’ve seen worse.” She gave him another shove.

Acceding, Moz got up. He grabbed the end of the table when everything started to spin. It wasn’t the plane, he was dizzy with weariness. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept – maybe two days ago? Three? It was a short distance to the seats, but even the few steps seemed like a tremendous effort. He fell asleep as soon as he was horizontal.

He had a vague memory of someone buckling him in and the plane landing then taking off again. By the time he achieved full consciousness, the cabin was dark and quiet. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and he noticed his fellow traveler reclining in the seat across from him. Moz must have made a noise; her eyes snapped open.

She looked at her watch, got up and left the cabin without a word. Moz followed. She wasn’t going to the head – the door to the pilot’s cabin slammed shut in his face. Under different circumstances, he would have liked to have seen the flight deck; he’d never had a chance to pilot something quite this exotic.

He washed up and went to check everything. The discs in his bag hadn’t been disturbed, and there was a pile of print-outs and the copies of the DVDs in an envelope. Obsessive and attentive as he was, Moz was compelled to double-check everything, and it was all in order. When she came back into the cabin, Moz just nodded and she returned the small salute.

“We’ll be landing in Teterboro in about two hours.” Without asking his preferences, she retrieved a small tray of food and placed it in front of him. He fell on it, devouring it all, including the cheese. 

“Have you decided what you’re going to do?” 

“What time will it be in New York when we land?”

“About noon.”

“And the day?”

“Tuesday.”

“Okay – ” Moz scratched at his beard and looked down at himself. This was too important, he needed to be taken seriously. “We’ll stop at my safe house in lower Manhattan first, then it’s the FBI offices.” He had thought about approaching Peter’s boss in less public confines, but time was running short. “Did you check with Peter when we were on the ground, refueling?”

That earned him a clear, bright smile. “Your friend made it through surgery just fine. Eli says he’ll make a full recovery, given time.”

Mozzie blinked and pulled off his glasses, tears of relief burning his eyes.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

There were things about this job that Reese Hughes always despised. Interoffice dick-measuring contests were at the top of that list.

Kyle Collins had been cooling his heels in the conference room since mid-morning and it was now close to two in the afternoon. The agent had simply appeared, slightly worse for wear, with a swollen lip and a black eye. He was insisting that Peter Burke had done this to him while abetting Neal Caffrey’s flight from Cape Verde. Philip Kramer, the old gasbag, had called his office a half-dozen times. He was insisting that Burke had nothing to do with that, and that Collins needed to get back out there and capture Caffrey.

There was, unfortunately, probably more than just a little truth to the story behind Collins’ bruises. But Collins himself was disturbing – careful inquiries told him that before joining the FBI, the man had done a few tours in Iraq, attached to several unnamed units based in Baghdad. Reese didn’t need to dig further to find out just what those units were. He wondered how Collins passed the psych evaluations.

There was a small commotion in the bullpen. Berrigan and Jones were hovering around a civilian. The man was more than vaguely familiar. While they had never been formally introduced, he knew this was Caffrey’s friend and purported attorney, Havisham.

That didn’t bode well. For anyone.

He went out to the balcony and summoned them. As they came up the stairs, Hughes thought their formation was interesting – Jones in front, Berrigan behind, and a woman in her mid-thirties trailing everyone. From the corner of his eye, he saw Collins emerge from the conference room – or try to. Without giving a single instruction, Jones blocked the other agent. Hughes gestured for Havisham to go into his office and he shut the door behind them. Berrigan and the stranger stood guard outside his door. 

“Well?” He knew Havisham’s reputation. Peter called him a paranoid genius with an inbred distaste for authority of any form, and if there was a reason for Neal to go off the reservation, this man was probably behind it, somehow. Peter also told him that Havisham was one of the most honorable men he had ever met, in his own way. And maybe just slightly crazy.

Dressed in an expensive looking black suit and tie, he didn’t appear crazy now – just angry and determined. 

“I am going to let these speak for themselves.” He handed him a large manila envelope.

Hughes didn’t take his eyes off the other man until he extracted the contents. That was an old trick he learned from a mentor a long time ago. It was usually effective, but not in this case.

When he finally looked down at the paper – photographs actually – he understood Havisham. His determination, his anger.

The photo on top showed Collins striking Neal Caffrey across the face. Caffrey was in handcuffs, arms above his head. The second and third pictures were equally disturbing. Collins was punching Neal in the stomach, in the chest.

He looked up and met Havisham’s eyes but said nothing.

His brow furrowed as he looked at the next picture. Collins was kneeling, Neal had no shoes on. And he was holding a set of jumper cables.

_Jesus..._

There were three or four more in the same vein – in each one, Neal was screaming. Hughes flipped back to the first one to check the timestamp. He swallowed against the rising nausea – these images were taken over the course of an hour.

“Keep going. It doesn’t get better.” Havisham commented, ice in his voice.

Not only didn’t it get better, it got worse. The next sequence was Collins beating Neal with what looked like a belt. Again, the difference in the timestamps between the first and last pictures was almost an hour.

He breathed through his nose, trying to keep control. 

Only to lose it on the next-to-last set of pictures. Of Kyle Collins, FBI Agent, raping Neal Caffrey. 

Hughes held up the last photograph and stared at it without blinking. It terrified him. Collins had a pistol pointed at the base of Neal’s spine – a likely point for a bullet hole if he were shot trying to flee custody. 

He carefully put the pictures back in the envelope, got up, and went to a small safe in the bookcase. He took out his service weapon and a clip; in a series of familiar, economical movements, he slid the clip into place, flicked off the safety, and chambered a round.

He hoped that bastard in the conference room resisted arrest. He hoped for that the way he had never hoped for anything since he was seven years old and wanted a pony for Christmas.

 

Peter did what he could to keep himself busy, straightening up the bedroom where Neal had been, checking the perimeter, and finally, when it was late enough, he called Elizabeth. 

They had spoken briefly after he made the call to Ze’ev, but not since then. He needed to hear her voice; he needed her to anchor him.

_“How is he?”_

He didn’t have to tell her not to use names. El understood that there were people listening. “Holding his own – they’re operating now.”

_“How are YOU doing, honey?”_

“Other than angry, worried, and frightened, just fine.” The last two words tasted sour.

She didn’t try to reassure him – such platitudes would be worthless. _“Have you slept at all? Eaten?”_

“No, and no. Maybe when it’s over – when I know what his status is. Right now, I’m too wound up. In truth, the thought of food made him sick and sleep was an unaffordable luxury.

They chatted about meaningless things. Peter just needed to hear her voice. 

_“Call me when you have news, okay?”_

“I will. I love you. Thank you.”

_“I love you too, and take care of yourself.”_

They ended the call and Peter found himself pacing the room, then the courtyard. He checked the perimeter again, the third time in as many hours. He disassembled the Glock, cleaned it and put it back together. The familiar actions, the familiar smell of gun oil, did not provide the familiar sense of peace.

Peter was only cognizant that it was dawn when the birds started singing. There was too much forest for a dramatic sunrise transition. He must have slept – an hour – or maybe it wasn’t so much sleep as just a state of not being awake. A quick check of his watch … it had been over four hours since Eli had taken Neal into the kitchen to operate.

How much longer was he going to have to wait?

He scrubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and went to wash up, to find some coffee. To find some patience.

To find some hope.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Hughes had stormed into the conference room, gun in one hand, the envelope with the photos in the other. Moz followed on his heels.

“Kyle Collins, you are under arrest. Surrender your weapon and your badge, now.”

“What’s the charge?” Collins stood up and Hughes raised his weapon into a ready-to-fire position. 

“ _Charges._ For starters: kidnapping, false imprisonment, assault, battery –” Hughes gave a rough bark of laughter and shook his head. “Rape and attempted murder.”

Collins looked shaken. He had licked his lips – a nervous tell, then gathered himself. “Kidnapping, false arrest? Neal Caffrey was a fugitive, I was pursuing him. I took him into custody.”

“Your right to detain him ended when you assaulted him while he was in your custody, while he was in handcuffs.” Moz watched in fascination as Hughes, without taking his eyes off of Collins, without lowering his gun, pushed the envelope across the table.

The other agent picked up the envelope, open it and pulled out the contents. It was interesting to watch a human being turn grey. He put the pictures down and pulled his gun from his holster. Moz actually thought that Collins was going to surrender, but instead of putting his gun on the table, he held it on Hughes, on him. 

Strangely, Moz wasn’t frightened.

“Put down your weapon, Collins.” Hughes didn’t quite shout, but the words resonated like bells.

The man gave them all a twisted smile. “Not going to happen.”

Moz had never wanted to witness suicide by cop, but in this case, he was thinking he could be happy to make an exception. Except that the Demi-Suits interfered. Collins had been so focused on Hughes that he didn’t realize that Jones was moving closer. He was quicker than Moz would have expected for a man his size. He grabbed Collins’ gun and the Lady Suit and his own personal Israeli-made Suit put the son of a bitch face down on the table and cuffed him.

It went without saying that Collins started screaming for a lawyer and for some reason, all of the other Suits in the room looked at _him_. Did they think he was going to…? No – they were waiting for him to step aside. He was blocking the door.

He waited in the conference room and watched as Jones and Diana looked at the photographs. He watched their faces, saw curiosity turning to anger turning to rage. Jones was trembling. He wiped his forehead, his mouth with a shaking hand. “I should have shot the bastard instead.”

His personal Suit gathered up the pictures and went to put them away. Diana grabbed her hand. “And just who the _hell_ are you?”

She reached into her pants pocket and pulled out an ID folder. “Rachel Dayan, Interpol – Tel Aviv.”

Moz wanted to laugh – a name, at last. But it was probably as real as his own.

Diana wasn’t backing down. “And what is your involvement? Last I heard, Tel Aviv has no jurisdiction over Cape Verde.”

Whatever answer she was about to give got cut off when Hughes came back into the room. He took the photos away from Rachel. She surrendered them easily and moved to the far end of the conference table. She clearly knew this wasn’t her show and wasn’t going to get involved if she didn’t have to.

“Havisham.” Hughes said his name and looked at him. “Do you have anything more than the photographs?”

In that gaze, Mozzie felt an unexpected connection. He reached into his satchel and pulled out the stack of DVDs – the copies he had made during the flight from Cape Verde. “They weren’t photos; they were stills from six hours of surveillance video. I hope you all have very strong stomachs.”

Jones loaded the disc and at his suggestion, advanced it to the point when Collins started beating Neal. 

They were waiting, but Moz wasn’t sure for whom. He got his answer soon enough.

A trio of Suits clattered in – a matched set in navy blue Brooks Brothers. They introduced themselves, but Moz simply thought of them as Moe, Larry, and Curly. They were from the Justice Department, and demanded to know where Neal Caffrey was and why their golden boy, Collins, was currently on ice in a holding cell.

Hughes told them to shut up and watch. 

And listen. It wasn’t until Diana took the remote and turned up the volume that Moz realized there was audio to go along with the torture.

_“I wonder if that pretty café owner will still like you with your face all cut up. Or the insurance investigator back in New York. You think they’d give you the time of day when you look like Frankenstein’s monster? But you know what, they don’t matter. You’re never going to see them again. Maybe I’ll be doing you a favor by cutting you up? The scum in Sing-Sing might just leave you alone. But then, maybe not? It’s not like they’re going to be looking at your face while taking turns with your ass.”_

Moz didn’t watch the screen – he watched the Suits – particularly the lawyer Suits. The one he privately called “Curly” – she was young and pretty and blonde – gasped when Collins started slicing up Neal’s face and throat. The leader, who looked to be as old as Hughes and just as stone-faced, glared at her.

Diana upped the audio again as Collins thrashed Neal, each punch, each slap echoing against the glass walls. The video came to an end, and Moe – Stoneface – whatever his name was – started to say something.

Hughes lifted a hand, cutting him off. “We’re not done yet.” 

Jones put in the next disc. Moz thought that having seen this already would have inured him to the horror of it, but it didn’t. Watching Neal being tortured with electric shocks, hearing his screams and worse – Collins crooning words of justification – made him as sick as he got the first time he saw it. 

Sitting there, Moz tried not to lose control. A hand covered his fist and he looked up. Rachel, her face stark white, looked close to breaking, too.

So did everyone else in the room. Hughes finally directed Diana to pause the playback. She turned it off. A few tense seconds passed and no one spoke. Moz realized that once again, he was the cynosure of all eyes.

He swallowed and organized his thoughts before speaking. “This isn’t the worst of it – not by far.” 

“Moe” spoke, unconsciously echoing Diana’s question to Rachel. “And who the hell are you?”

Hughes replied. “This is Mr. Caffrey’s lawyer. That’s all you need to know, Walter.”

Moz continued. “Neal Caffrey was tortured for almost six hours straight. You’ve seen the beating and the torture that FBI Agent Kyle Collins administered to him – under color of authority from the United States Justice Department.”

The Three Stooges fidgeted with their pens and legal pads. None of them would meet his eyes.

“Over the course of the next three hours, Collins whipped Neal Caffrey with his belt, left him hanging from his arms because he was unable to stand on feet that were blistered from sustained contact with electric shock paddles.” Moz took a deep breath. “Collins returned to Neal’s cell, cut his pants off him and raped him.”

 _That_ finally got a reaction.

“Rape – you have got to be kidding? FBI Agents don’t go around raping people!” The man Hughes called Walter practically shouted.

“They also don’t go around beating and torturing people, either. But this one did.” Hughes pushed the folder with the stills over to him. “If you can’t stomach watching what an agent of this country did to one of its citizens - to another human being, you might want to consider a career change.”

Walter ignored Hughes. “Do you know if Caffrey is still alive?”

“He is. No thanks to Collins. Peter Burke found Neal just as Collins was about to shoot him.” 

Hughes extracted the damning photo of Collins - dick hanging out of his pants, gun pointed at the base of Neal’s spine - and handed it to Walter. He looked at it, shook his head and asked, “What do you want.”

Crunch time. “The FBI – the U.S. Government – owes Neal Caffrey for what Kyle Collins did to him. What Philip Kramer was going to do to him.”

Walter interrupted. “Neal Caffrey is a criminal – throughout his work-release he was involved in dozens of crimes. I’ve seen Agent Kramer’s files and his report.”

“Kramer had no proof – his actions were petty and vindictive – and they were in clear violation of my client’s civil rights.”

“Then he should have filed a claim with the Justice Department, not run away.” Walter’s tone was angry, combative, like a man cornered.

Moz steadied himself. Arguing like this was not relevant or helpful. “I can’t change the past, _Walter_ , but the Government is going to recompense my client for the damage done to him. There is precedent, case law. And unless you want me to take this to the media, you’re going to do everything you can to make this right.” 

He stared at Walter, for once in his life, the alpha dog in the room. 

Walter blinked and dropped his eyes. “I’ll have to get sign off on any monetary settlement – do you have an amount in mind?”

Moz snagged a legal pad and wrote down a number. He passed the folded sheet to Jones, who handed it over to Walter. Walter looked at it, and before he said anything, Moz casually noted, “When the media gets hold of Kyle Collins’ employment history before he joined the FBI, you all better get yourselves some really strong umbrellas. The shit that’s going to rain down will stick to you for decades.”

The middle stooge opened his mouth, but Walter cut him off. “What else?”

“My client comes home, resumes his life in New York without any further interference from the FBI.”

“I won’t be able to get the rest of Caffrey’s sentence vacated – that’s not within my authority.”

Moz laughed, the sound felt good in his lungs, in his throat. He liked the way it just hung in the air. “You can get the U.S. government to pony up six million dollars for a fugitive, tax free, but you can’t get his sentence commuted? Try again, Walter.”

“If this happened to Caffrey when he was in custody of the Federal Prison System, I could – but this – this …” Walter waved his hands over the pictures. “It would take months to unravel this. But I can reinstate Caffrey’s deal with this office, and have his contract modified to reflect that no other office or agency has the right to interfere with Caffrey without his handler’s express permission.”

Moz nodded. “He comes back to New York and it’s as if he was never gone.” That got every set of eyebrows raised. 

“You’re asking us to count the time he was on the run as part of his sentence? You’re really pushing it.”

Moz just stared at Walter, no smile, no expression at all. Walter looked around the room, to Hughes particularly, for support. He didn’t find any. “Okay – okay. We’ll have a memo outlining everything to you before the end of the day.” The three stooges prepared to leave.

Hughes spoke up. “You’re not going anywhere until Caffrey’s lawyer signs off on the deal. Walter – you can use my office to get approval from DC. Diana – take these two into the bullpen – they can use Caffrey’s desk to write everything up.” He directed Jones to collect the DVDs, which he added to the envelope with the stills. “I’ll hold on to these, just in case.”

Moz watched the Suits leave. It was just him and Rachel, and he collapsed back into a chair.

“That was some performance … ” she commented.

There were a million ways he could have responded, but he just said, “Thanks.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	4. Day Four

There wasn’t a word for how tired Peter was. Exhaustion didn’t begin to cover it. He tried to remember the last time he slept. Maybe a few hours on the flight from Newark to Lisbon. He closed his eyes, just to rest them. That was all he needed…

_“Peter? Peter?”_

The voice calling his name was not as familiar as it should have been. He opened his eyes. A man in surgical scrubs was rubbing his shoulder, trying to wake him up.

Everything came back in a rush.

“Neal?”

Eli smiled. “Your friend will be fine. The damage was limited to his spleen, and we removed it. His breathing’s fine, too.”

Peter pushed himself upright. “Where is he?”

“Come with me.” Eli led him back to Neal’s bedroom. And there he was, with a nurse sitting next to him. She looked up as they entered, a smile on her lips. “I think he’s ready to wake up.”

Eli bent over Neal, and just as he had with Peter, he gently rubbed his shoulder. “Neal – Mr. Caffrey – Neal, it’s time to wake up. Open your eyes, Neal.” Eli kept at it, calling to Neal, gently shaking his shoulder, until Neal obeyed.

“Whu?” Neal smacked his lips together and the nurse swabbed them. “What happened?”

Eli explained in low, measured tones what he had done, but Neal wasn’t listening. His head was whipping around, looking for something, someone. Looking for Peter. Their eyes met and Neal settled down.

“I’m here – I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

Neal actually smiled.

The nurse shooed them off, and Eli took him by the arm, into the far corner of the room. “Neal’s strong, he’s on antibiotics, and barring anything unforeseen, he’ll make a full recovery from the surgery.”

Peter was picking up clues that Eli was telegraphing. “But that’s not the whole story, right?”

“At this point, I’m most worried about his feet. There’s nerve damage there and he’ll probably need skin grafts. We debrided the dead skin, but some of the blisters went through all the dermal layers. He _has_ to stay off his feet. Caring for him will be difficult.”

Peter nodded in understanding. Eli didn’t look convinced that he understood the importance of these instructions. “I’ve got to get home – but I am leaving nurses and aides behind with the security team.” When Peter started to say that he didn’t need them, Eli cut him off. “You will need them – you’ll need every bit of help you can get, and then some.”

Peter took a deep breath, “Okay – so we’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Well, let’s just say that the forest edge is in sight. Just tread carefully. And don’t forget to take care of yourself.

Peter scrubbed at his face. He had a few things he needed to do before he could rest. “Are you ready to leave now?”

Eli nodded. “Equipment’s been packed up and I’ve contacted my pilot at the airport to get the jet ready. Rachel – ”

“Rachel?”

“Ah – my minder never fully introduced herself. She’s probably on her way back to Tel Aviv with the other plane. When you’re ready to go back to New York, call my father. He’ll arrange for your transportation home.” 

Peter was about to say something to the effect that he could never repay either Eli or Ze’ev, but Eli gave Peter a broad, genuine smile. “And before you start talking about debts and favors and shit like that, I want to show you something.” He pulled out his cell phone and launched a photo app. “These are my children.” Two dark-haired, dark-eyed girls were carefully holding a fat, happy six-month old. 

“They’re beautiful.”

“My eldest’s name is Maialen Petra.”

Peter met Eli’s eyes, simply shocked. Eli’s people didn’t generally name their children after the living. 

“She was named after my grandmother, who died just a few weeks before she was born. And she was named after you, too. There is no debt between us, Peter Burke. We do this because we are family.”

Peter nodded, speechless.

Eli hugged him. “I’ll be in touch when I get back home – but Gada and Livia are very competent nurses. Neal’s in good hands.”

Peter blinked against the tears, swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and wrapped his arms around Eli, hugging him back. “Thank you.” Two simple words had to convey all the gratitude he felt.

Eli checked on Neal once more before leaving. The nurse, who introduced herself as Livia, walked out with him. He was alone with Neal for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

Someone had brought in a lounge chair and placed it next to the bed. Peter sat down – or more accurately collapsed into it. He needed to call home and hear Elizabeth’s voice, he had to call Ze’ev, to catch up with Moz, who was probably somewhere over the Atlantic by now.

But he didn’t do any of those things. He simply rested his hand over Neal’s, found the strong, steady rhythm of his pulse, and closed his eyes.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal woke, but he didn’t open his eyes, a habit ingrained since prison. He was in pain – but not terrible agony – which meant he was alive and not in Hell. The air was warm on his face and there were the unfamiliar sounds of steady mechanical beeps punctuated by bird song. There were other sounds too, rhythmic and dissonant. Someone was close by, sleeping. And snoring. Neal turned his head in that direction and slowly, carefully lifted his eyelids. 

It was Peter, almost horizontal in a lounge chair, his head tilted back, mouth opened, and sawing enough wood to build a cabin. Neal relaxed. If Peter was here, he wasn’t in danger.

At that thought, everything came rushing back. Peter’s arrival, their reunion, his capture.

What Collins did to him.

Neal dug around in his memories – it was all there. The beating, the electrocution, the whipping. The rape.

And oddly, he didn’t feel stained by any of it. Maybe it was a combination of the painkillers and the lingering effects of the anesthesia. Or maybe it was knowing that in some way, he was responsible for everything. He had goaded Collins into the beating, to get it on record and use it for leverage. Everything that happened after that was an extension of his original decision. He could live with that.

And just maybe the anger and the shame and the trauma would hit him tomorrow, or the next day – or maybe a week or month or a year of days later.

Neal sighed, and the noise brought Peter to instant and full wakefulness. It was fascinating to watch.

“Hey, there – how are you feeling? Do you need anything? Are you in a lot of pain?” Peter’s questions flew out faster than Neal could answer.

“I’m okay – I think.” He tried to sit up. That hurt, that seriously hurt. And there was something on his legs, squeezing.

“Shhh – take it easy.” Peter got up and helped him into a semi-sitting position, tucking a cushion from the chair behind him for support. The pressure from the dense cushion made the wounds on his back ache, the new angle made his belly and ribs ache. His head hurt, his face hurt and Neal wondered why he wanted to sit up, after all.

And then he realized he had to pee. “Ummm, Peter?” He looked up at his friend and felt himself flushing bright red. It made the cuts and bruises ache worse.

Thankfully Peter understood the problem. “I’ll be right back.”

A nurse and a male aide came in and Peter stepped out. The nurse explained that they didn’t want to cath him and risk infection, so he’d need to use the bottle. It was … unpleasant. She also upped the painkillers and he started feeling better almost immediately. If everything stayed on track, it would be just another twelve hours and they’d take out the N-G tube and his IV fluids. 

By the time they finished with him, changing bandages, applying all sorts of creams and ointments, even sponge bathing him, Neal was exhausted, but he didn’t want to go back to sleep, not just yet.

The nurse gave the all clear, and Peter came back in. He looked almost as bad as Neal felt. Truthfully, he had never seen Peter look this bad – the stain across the front of his shirt was probably his own blood. Neal had a very clear memory of being cradled in Peter’s arms, of leaning his head on Peter’s shoulder, of apologizing for the damage.

“When was the last time you slept in a real bed?”

Peter shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. I had more important things to take care of.”

Neal smiled faintly. _Typical Peter._ “Maybe you need to take care of yourself now?”

Peter raised an eyebrow at him.

Changing the subject, Neal had to ask, “Where’s Moz?”

Peter looked at his watch. “In New York by now, probably raising havoc with the Justice Department. I’ll give him another two hours and call.” 

“Do you really think he’s going to be able … ?” He couldn’t bring himself to say it; he didn’t want to jinx it.

“To get you home? Absolutely.”

Neal admired Peter’s conviction – he wasn’t sure he shared it, though. “I think I want to go back to sleep – maybe you should too? I mean – go to bed?”

Peter’s smile touched something in him, that same warm spark he had felt when they first faced each other in Praia. 

“Okay, but don’t go anywhere. I am a little worn out from chasing you.”

Neal smiled and gave a huff of laughter. It hurt just a bit too much.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The water, almost scaldingly hot, felt like heaven. Peter let it pound on his back, washing away the sweat and fear from the last four days. He scrubbed his skin clean and wished he could wash the stains off of his soul just as easily.

So much of this was his fault. The memories cascaded like the water.

__

_A scrap of burning canvas flutters to his feet and he turns on Neal like a rabid dog. What came after was predestined from that moment:_

_Neal begs for an explanation, trying to understand why they went from friends willing to die for each other to cold war combatants._

_Neal meeting all of his veiled – and not so veiled – accusations with that perfectly guileless smile, the one he had learned to trust the least._

_Neal standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him, and then the look of betrayal when he told him that he’d never be anything more than a con._

_Neal telling him he hadn’t hit rock-bottom yet, and his own wondering if Neal believes that he’ll bounce._

_Neal dodging and sparring with Kramer, making his mentor look an old fool._

_Neal, ashen – stricken, taking him to the treasure, promising him that he’d get it back, promising him his life._

_Neal telling him he didn’t want to leave with Mozzie because he didn’t want to leave *him*._

_Neal walking into the conference room, prepared to surrender, prepared to spend his life behind bars because he had to make things right._

_Neal carefully walking away from what should have been the proudest moment of his life because Peter had once wanted to feel vindicated._

So many moments – all wrong because there was one time that he didn’t think – he reacted. Guilt and shame roiled though him. He turned off the shower and fought against the nausea. And lost. 

Peter heaved over the toilet until he could barely move. When he finally stood up, he felt old – ancient – like something that should have been buried and forgotten a long time ago.

He rinsed his mouth, made his way into a bedroom and fell into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	5. Day Five

The morning brought many things, chief amongst them, news.

Moz called, triumphant. Of course, he insisted on hearing about Neal first. When Peter told him that their friend was well on the road to recovery, Moz still refused to divulge any information. If Neal was awake, he was going to tell him directly. If he wasn’t, then Peter would just have to wait.

The logical compromise was to put the phone on speaker and let them both hear at the same time.

Strangely, Peter was more interested in seeing Neal’s reactions than hearing about the deal that Moz struck on their friend’s behalf.

_“Your ‘deal’ is intact, mon frère. They’ll give you your jewelry back, and no added time.”_

Neal’s smile was like the dawn over the desert – instantaneously brilliant. And when he looked up at Peter, the joy was incandescent. Like someone had just fulfilled every dream he ever had. The guilt Peter felt last night morphed into to something sharp and bitter and dangerous.

_“And that’s not all.”_

Both of them looked at the phone, as if Moz was materializing out of the speakers. Peter spoke. “You got him an increase in his radius?”

_“Drat – I didn’t think of that.”_

“Then what?” Neal grinned at Peter, shaking his head in amusement, as if nothing could be better than what Moz already told them.

_“Your rainy day fund just got a whole lot wetter.”_

“You got him a raise?” Peter thought that was a little out of character for Moz, who so clearly disdained the trappings of a work-a-day life.

_“Not hardly, Suit. The U.S. Government is compensating Neal for the damage done to him by Agent Collins. They’ve settled at six million dollars – tax free, which has already been deposited into a special account.”_

Both men stilled. Neal in shock, Peter in something less easy to define. Neal spoke first. “That wasn’t necessary, Moz.”

_“I beg to differ. Someone needs to pay …”_

“Neal – he’s right.” Peter spoke, the words an absolute truth. “Collins is wrong – twisted – and the Bureau knew that when they sent him after you. This doesn’t make things right, but it may make things better.”

“Okay – then thanks, Moz.” Neal acceded. “You’ll take your cut?”

Moz shocked them again. _“On this one, I think not. Watching Hughes take down Collins was payment enough.”_

Peter and Neal clamored for that story, but Moz wouldn’t give in. _“Something to look forward to when you get home. Speaking of which – now that you can, when can we expect you?”_

“Eli said that if there were no further complications, Neal would be cleared to travel tomorrow. But it’s not going to be as simple as telling June to have the covers taken off the furniture in the apartment.” Peter explained about the deep damage to Neal’s feet and Moz promised to arrange for a space at an appropriate private medical facility. On the Government’s dime, of course.

They talked a bit more, and no matter how much Neal and Peter wheedled, Moz refused to give up the story of Hughes and Collins, it was just too good to share over the phone. He did say, though, that Collins would not be a problem anymore. Or more specifically – ever again. That set Peter to wondering if the rogue agent was still alive.

Moz hung up. The sudden silence was awkward.

“Peter?” Neal had that look on his face – the one that Peter could never quite resist.

“You know what? I’m hungry – I’ll be back in a few.” He left Neal sitting there, mouth agape at his sudden departure. He _was_ hungry, but what he really needed was distance, perspective, time to process his feelings.

A cup of coffee helped with all of that. Of course, there was happiness – pure, unadulterated joy that Neal was going to be able to come home. He had missed his friend; the past six weeks had felt like years. But underneath the happiness was still the guilt and the shame. Peter couldn’t forget Neal’s halting confession about breaking into his home. The logic was undeniable, that action – like so many that preceded it, that followed it, was ultimately his fault.

Fruit of the poisonous tree.

Coffee finished, he made himself some eggs. They tasted like crap. He washed his dishes, cleaned up the countertops and made sure everything was properly put away. Peter knew what he was doing – these were all delaying tactics. And he couldn’t delay any longer.

Back in Neal’s room, the nurses were working on their patient. While the bruises on his face weren’t anywhere near close to fading, the swelling had gone down. As Peter watched, Neal flirted with the nurses, charming them to the extent they allowed themselves to be charmed.

He cleared his throat and everyone looked at him – Gada with a blush tinting her cheeks. “We’re about to take out Neal’s N-G tube.” 

Of course Neal chimed in. “Which means I can eat – ”

“Only clear food until tomorrow.” Livia tried to be repressive, but Neal’s happiness was too infectious.

Peter stepped out of the room – not so much to give Neal some privacy, but to save his own stomach. Gada came out with a sealed bag of medical waste and told him with a smile that Neal was “ready for his close-up.”

Livia followed, and it there was no avoiding what he needed to do. What he needed to say.

Neal was propped up on pillows, eyes closed, but a smile curving his lips. It was amazing how good he looked, after everything. Peter couldn’t help but sigh.

“What’s the matter? You’ve been acting strange.” 

Peter sat down, tried to compose his thoughts, and failed miserably. He scrubbed at his face, grimacing.

“What’s going on? You’re scaring me, Peter.”

“Neal – I’m sorry. All of this is my fault.”

Neal snapped his eyes open and levered himself upright. Peter immediately got up to help, but Neal pushed him away. “What do you mean? Of course it’s not!”

“If I hadn’t accused you of stealing the treasure …”

“You really think I would have come to you when I found out what Moz had done?”

Peter wasn’t at all willing to be absolved so easily.

“I set Kramer on you.”

“And I lied to you for months.”

“You didn’t lie – ” _Technically._

“Peter – are you kidding me?”

He brushed Neal off. “There’s something I need to tell you – something I should have done, something that might have prevented this.”

“No – there’s was nothing that could have stopped this. Kramer was going to take me away from you, and you couldn’t have stopped him. Telling me to run was the best thing you did for me. If Kramer took me to DC, I would never have gotten away. You would have burned yourself out trying to free me.”

“And if I had spoken up when I should have, if I came to you – trusted you – Kramer never would have had the leverage he needed.”

Neal finally seemed to get that there was something that he didn’t know about – something that he hadn’t planned on. “What are you saying?”

“Remember the night after we got Taylor’s crew – I came over to your apartment…”

“Yeah – you wanted to ask me something, but then you said it wasn’t important. We ended up at Yankee Stadium that night.” Neal grinned at the memory. “You pitched from the mound.”

Peter refused to let himself be distracted. “I knew that Kramer had figured out something about the Raphael. He had broken your coded letter to Kate. Diana passed me a copy. I was going to ask you about it – if I had …” _You wouldn’t have ended up beaten and broken._

“If you had, we both would have ended up in prison, Peter. If I told you about the Raphael and you helped me move it – Kramer would have found out. It would have been ten times worse.” Neal took his hand, gripping it hard. “Don’t ever forget what you told me, when Moz and I were trying to take the blame for Elizabeth’s kidnapping – you said, ‘Keller kidnapped Elizabeth, you didn’t. Remember that.’ Collins hurt me, you didn’t. Unless you really want to wallow in useless guilt, you’ll remember that, too.”

Peter shook his head, he remembered telling Neal that he wasn’t the one responsible for what happened to Elizabeth. He believed it then, he still believed it. The logic was inescapable. He _wasn’t_ responsible for what happened to Neal - except that it was hard to shake that guilt.

Neal squeezed his hand. “I need you, Peter - it’s not going to be easy going back.”

That sharp, painful knot began to ease. It wasn’t going to go away so quickly, but it wasn’t going to destroy him - _them_ \- either.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal suspected that everything would hit him soon. It hadn’t yet because he was still a bit floaty from the anesthesia and the pain killers. Given time, it would come crashing in and he’d be an emotional wreck. That reality would arrive with a vengeance was a certainty.

But for now, everything was good. In a day or two, he’d be able to go back to New York, pick up the threads of his life again. He would have been happy here on Cape Verde, but there was always going to be a part of him that longed for New York, that longed for the life he left behind. He wondered if there going to now be a part of him that would dream of coming back here, living as James Maine.

_Unlikely._

He looked up as Peter came back into the room. Judging by the contents in each hand, he had found Mozzie’s secret stash of romance novels. He held up the one in his right hand. “You’ve got your choice - a long-haired Viking about to ravish a brunette in a nineteenth century riding habit?” And the one in his left, “Or a long-haired Scotsman in a kilt carrying off a redhead in an equally ahistorical ball gown?” Peter compared both covers. “Oddly enough, the Viking looks like he could be the Scotsman’s twin brother.”

Neal chuckled, which hurt his belly. “What can I say, Moz has very eclectic tastes in reading material. And under different circumstances, I think I’d enjoy having you read some of the more, ah - interesting - passages aloud.”

Peter laughed at that, but Neal could still hear the strain in his voice. He could understand the guilt, more than understand it. Particularly in a man with such an over-developed sense of responsibility. Like so many things, it was just going to take time.

“Then what can I do for you?”

“You know, it would be nice to sit outside. Maybe we can relax in the courtyard?”

Neal thought that Peter would get one of the aides and maybe a chair, but he was wrong. Neal watched wide-eyed as Peter bent over and scooped him up, like a bride. 

“Ooof, Caffrey - you are a lot heavier than you look.”

But Peter was strong, strong enough to carry him out to the patio and deposit him on one of the sun-warmed loungers without staggering, without even raising a sweat or getting breathless. Neal couldn’t remember when he had felt quite so cherished and he hoped like hell that he wasn’t blushing.

“My hero,” he commented - only half-joking.

Peter stood over him, hands on his hips. “Now what?”

Neal waved to the other lounge chair. “How about sitting down and taking it easy? We can pretend we’re on vacation.”

“Caffrey…”

“Come on, Peter. I’m not going anywhere and why shouldn’t you take a few minutes and relax? Collins is out of the picture, Dobbs isn’t going to come after us and there are still the guards on the perimeter.” He looked around the courtyard, Gada and Livia were at the far end, also relaxing. “Why don’t you tell me how you got an Israeli medical team and a bunch of mercenaries to fly to my rescue? I’m sure it must be a fascinating story.”

Peter’s face got that closed-in look, so familiar when he didn’t want to reveal something. Neal wondered if he was similarly expressive when playing poker. 

“Come on, tell me.”

“It’s not that exciting, really.”

“Peter …” Neal knew he was wheedling.

“Okay - okay.” Peter pitched his voice low, so it wouldn’t carry. “About ten years ago, I was working on a case - pharmaceutical forgeries. It involved a dozen companies, here, in Europe, in Israel - and it looked like the connection was medical students and residents. They had access, were poorly paid, vulnerable to inducements.”

“And I’m guessing that Eli was one of those you targeted.”

Peter nodded in agreement. “But he wasn’t involved - not really. He had gotten caught up unwittingly and the US Attorney’s office was looking for an easy closure. If the case had gotten media exposure, it could have undermined the faith in the whole pharmaceutical industry. Eli was looking at serious jail time. My gut told me that this kid wasn’t involved, that he was being set up.”

“And Peter Burke’s gut is never wrong.” Neal had to comment.

“As you well know. Anyway, I pushed back on the US Attorney’s office, and kept digging. We eventually found the right connections. Eli testified as a Government witness, we got convictions across the board and shut down one of the most dangerous organized crime rings that no one had ever heard of. About a week afterwards, I was leaving the office and found a man sitting in my car. Middle-aged, harmless-looking, until you met his eyes.” Peter shook his head at the memory. “It was Eli’s father - and no, you don’t need to know his name. He wanted to express his gratitude for my diligence. If I was ever in serious trouble, I should call him. He’d do whatever he could to help.”

Neal whistled, knowing just how much ‘help’ had been provided. “He must have a lot of juice.”

Peter just gave him The Look. Then laughed and asked, “Your mother isn’t Jewish, perchance?”

Neal was thoroughly puzzled. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

And got The Look again.

His gaze dropped to his groin and the light went on. “Ah. No. Were you really thinking about …” Neal was stunned. “You really would have lied about that for me?”

Peter shrugged. “Yeah - I wanted legal sanctuary for you. I was talked out of it, though. And you know how everything else worked out, anyway.”

Neal universe just shifted. He knew that when Peter came to Cape Verde to warn him about Collins, he was probably risking his career for him. But this - to actively consider lying and involve nation-states in those lies was a contradiction of everything he knew about Peter Burke. Or thought he knew.

Peter relaxed against the lounger. “I’ve spoken with … my contact. Since you’re cleared for travel tomorrow, he’s sending the jet to Praia. We’ll be back in New York on Saturday evening.”

“I can’t wait.” 

Peter looked at him, his gaze searching. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Neal felt it in his bones. 

“And what about Maya?”

Peter’s odd tone surprised him. It sounded a bit too much like jealousy. “We’ve already said our goodbyes. I don’t want her to see me like this.” But there was no reason why he couldn’t keep in touch with her when he got back to New York - if just to make certain that there were no repercussions. Of any kind. “I just want to go home. I want to be Neal Caffrey again. I want my life back.”

“Good, because I want Neal Caffrey back too.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	6. Day Six

The first call came a little before ten AM. He didn’t recognize the number, but he recognized the voice. 

“Sir?”

“Burke - you sound appropriately humbled.” He knew he was barking at Peter. He had a reputation to maintain, after all. “I trust you’re calling to tell me when you’ll be back in New York.” 

“We’ll be landing in Teterboro about six PM, New York time. We’re in Lisbon now, refueling.”

“Good. How’s Caffrey?” 

“Anxious to get home.” 

Reese let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “He’s doing … okay?”

“Yeah.” There was a wealth of information in that single syllable. 

“Tell Neal that we all look forward to seeing him.” 

“I will.”

“Do you want me to call Elizabeth?”

“Already spoken to her - but if you wouldn’t mind …”

“I’ll have a car sent for her. Believe me, we all want to be there to roll out the red carpet for you and Neal.” He wasn’t being sarcastic. Not really.

Hughes hung up, satisfied. Peter was going to have a bit of a rocky road ahead of him - even if the results of his little jaunt off the reservation were unquestionable, he did violate a direct order. His head wasn’t going to roll - especially since Burke wasn’t bound to keep his mouth shut about Collins - but he was going to have to lay low for a while.

And he knew just the place to put him for the duration.

The second call came about three hours later. It was, in retrospect, not unexpected. 

Kyle Collins was dead. Shot by a fellow agent during his transfer to the Manhattan Correctional Facility.

According to the agent in charge of the transfer, Collins - who was given a little too much consideration of his status and was not put into handcuffs during his transfer - grabbed a gun. He fired one, missed, and the other agents fired back. Collins was dead before he hit the ground.

He deplored this perversion of justice - the man deserved much worse. He deserved to spend the rest of his life behind bars. Suffering.

But in a way, Reese knew that this was also for the best. It closed the book on something dark and disgusting - both for Caffrey and for the Bureau.

It was definitely better this way.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Moz was more than a little leery of hopping into the big black SUV with dark tinted windows and US Government plates on it. It was only Elizabeth’s presence that got him inside the vehicle.

“Relax, Moz. You’ve braved the FBI, you’ve faced down the Justice Department, surely a forty-minute ride to the airport isn’t that much of a problem?”

“More like ninety minutes - with traffic.” He grumbled, but climbed into the back seat and tried not to huddle too closely to Mrs. Suit. He didn’t want her to get the wrong ideas - she was a married woman, after all.

“So, how does it feel to be the hero of the moment?”

He squinted at her. “Hmm, not sure if I’m really a hero. Neal’s getting his shackle back.”

“But he’s coming home … ” El countered. “Because of you.”

“You do know what happened to him?” And Moz wished he hadn’t asked that.

“Yes, I do.” Her answer was sober, measured. “Peter told me - and not just in broad strokes.”

“Your husband was the real hero. Or maybe Neal was.” _For enduring_.

El leaned over and kissed his pate. “Let’s just say you were all heroes and leave it at that.”

Mozzie figured that the driver had violated all sorts of traffic laws because they were pulling into Teterboro Airport much sooner than expected. Driving up to a private hanger, he was struck by a moment of déjà vu. Not that that was particularly unexpected.

The Demi-Suits were there, of course. And so was Hughes, even more grim-faced than he was accustomed to. He left El in Jones and Diana’s good hands and went over to Peter’s boss.

“Problems?”

Hughes gave him a dyspeptic look. “Collins is dead.”

“Ah.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“It makes things less … complicated.”

Hughes kept his eyes on the aircraft that was rolling to a stop at the front of the hanger. “That it does.”

Moz thought about wild justice and how one could get revenge without anyone else being the wiser. Francis Bacon wasn’t always right.

The engines were cut, the airplane door opened, and customs officials climbed the staircase. They seemed to take an awfully long time. El, and Diana and Clinton joined them. Mrs. Suit was practically dancing in excitement.

Finally, the customs people left the plane, clipboards tucked away. They nodded and that seemed a signal for everyone to rush out to the aircraft.

Moz didn’t recognize the first person to duck his head out the door, and his heart sank. Were they at the wrong place? The man walked down the first three steps and turned around to face the door. The end of a bulky wheelchair popped out of the hatch, and the man caught and lifted it. Moz sighed in relief. It was Neal.

They descended slowly and only Hughes’ hand on his shoulder stopped him from interfering. But at last, Neal was on the ground, looking a hell of a lot better than Moz expected.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

They were about an hour outside of New York airspace when everything hit Neal.

It wasn’t a dramatic collapse, not like when he sat alone in his apartment looking at bullets and Moz’s ineffectual attempts to decipher the music box code. He didn’t sweep things onto the floor in a fit of rage or grief or whatever emotion best suited the moment. No, he just lost it. 

He wanted to tell the pilot to turn the jet around. He didn’t want to do this. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t face what was waiting for him there. 

It wasn’t the tracker, or coming to terms with the fact that he still had two more years of his sentence to serve, or anything like that. He had always been prepared for the commutation board to say “No.” He meant what he said that day - that yea or nay, come Monday morning, he’d be at his desk, doing the work he’d come to love.

It was seeing their faces, seeing the pity, the compassion. The knowledge that they've seen the terrible things done to him. Things that could never be unseen, never be forgotten now.

He was probably going to have to face Collins, too. There was certainly going to be a trial, he’d have to testify. They’d play the recordings. Of the beatings, the electric shocks, the rape.

Neal swallowed, nauseous. He was sweating and cold and he needed to get up, get away, get out of here. He couldn’t do this. _No. No. No. No. No._

He didn’t realize he was saying those words out loud until Peter was kneeling next to his seat.

“Shh, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” Those arms were around him, lifting him up, holding him. “I’ve got you.”

Somehow, he was back on Peter’s lap - the position sparked the memory of Peter rescuing him, holding him, keeping him safe. 

It didn’t feel weird at all to be sitting like this, clinging to him like a limpet. Peter was cradling him so carefully, like he was rare and fragile. He tried to get some control over his emotions, but the harder he tried, the worse he felt.

“I can’t - I can’t go back. I’m sorry - but I can’t.”

“We’ll have to land, we’ll have to refuel. Maybe we can land in Greenland. Where do you want to go?”

Peter’s voice, so calm, so matter-of-fact, so _practical_ , was the anchor he needed. Neal took a deep, shuddering breath and lifted his head off of Peter’s shoulder. “You’d do that? You’d let me go?”

 

“Neal - I want what’s best for you - I always have. But if you can’t face New York, at least, just yet, we’ll make arrangements. I can tell them that you need specialized treatment, and the best doctors for that are in - I don’t know - Brazil? Japan? London? Wherever you want to go.”

The panic receded. Peter was giving him a choice without counting the cost to himself. Of everything that Peter had done for him, this was the greatest gift of all.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and rested his head on Peter’s shoulder.

“Well, what should I tell the pilot?”

“Nothing. I want to go home.” 

“You sure?” Peter’s breath was warm against his forehead.

“Yeah. It’ll be fine.”

Although his arms probably went numb, and his back must have been aching, Peter held him until they had to buckle in for landing.

Back in his seat, he over at looked at Peter, his friend - so careworn and tired. Neal thought that he was the luckiest man in the world.

He must have sighed, because Peter looked up and smiled. “You okay?”

“I think so.”

“Not too late to change your mind. I can make a call and you won’t have to get off this plane until you want to.”

It was still so tempting - but it would be running. And Neal was tired of running. He never wanted to run in the first place. “No, let’s go home.”

__

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> At the end, Mozzie’s thinking of Francis Bacon’s statement: “Revenge is a kind of wild justice, which the more a man's nature runs to, the more ought law to weed it out.” My fandoms pollinate each other.


End file.
